


Soft Boot (Part 2)

by mother_finch



Series: Soft Boot [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: While John Reese and Root struggle with their time held prisoner with Samaritan, Sameen Shaw and Harold Finch run dangerously close to wit's end searching for their missing counterparts.





	Soft Boot (Part 2)

**{Samaritan Systems Compromised...**

**> virus detected**

**> >running emergency protocols**

**...Closed Circuit Test in Progress...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> >Eastwood, Syracuse, NY**

**> >> July 15, 2016, 03:00 EST**

**... Asset Target: Information Access}**

John's fingers curl around the icy arm rests of his metal chair, wrists purple and swollen against the restraints. His fingernails dig into the chair, scraping with a high-pitch trill. He grinds his teeth, barely willing to keep his eyes open. Barely willing to keep this up.

His wounds have, for the most part, healed. Root saw to that. He doesn't know what she told them, but whatever it was, the Samaritan operatives treated his burns and changed the dressings. Whatever they wanted from her in exchange for John's life-- they got it.

Another punch. It's cacophonous, echoing off the white walls of this hellish room. Lambert cracks his knuckles, ghoulish smile lighting his face, as he winds back. Another punch. Wind. Punch. Wind. Punch.

The yelling stopped about thirty three seconds ago. The grunts of pain came first. Strong resolve and snarky retorts before every hit. Then, the yelling. The anguished shouts, but still the retorts came. The hysteric smiles. Then, only yelling. Too weary to keep up the facade of being okay. And now, silence. The silence is perhaps the most haunting.

All John can do is watch. Horror in his eyes, jaw clenched tight and muscles shaking with rage.  _Why can't it be me_ , he asks himself.  _I was trained for it. I was built for it. I can handle it. She can't._

Lambert's first strike to Root came as a shock to John. To see him direct questions at John only to strike Root. He understands Lambert's game, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"How about you give it a rest?" John says between clenched teeth. Lambert turns to him, shaking out his hand. John's eyes flicker to Root, head dropped to her chest and face obscured by hair matted with blood and sweat.  _She can't keep going like this. I can't let her keep going like this._

"If you're ready to talk, she can have the rest of the day off."

"Usually, when you interrogate someone, you punch the person you're directing the questions at."

Lambert smirks, tilting his head to the side with condescension.

"Yes, let me torture the trained military man. The one built to never break," he sneers, turning back to Root. He winds his arm. "Now, any answers for me before we proceed?"

"Don't tell him."

Her voice is soft-- a slurred whisper that barely travels through the silence. She lifts her head; John's heart breaks. The bruises already molt her features, lips split and blood caked under her nose. Her eyes barely hold open, but she keeps them trained on John.

"Don't tell him anything."

Punch. Root's head snaps to the left, then drops back to her chest. Lambert grabs her by the hair, pulling her face up to his.

"I thought we were past the point of you speaking out of turn."

Her eyes are like daggers on his. She spits. Crimson red splatters his face, and he fumbles back. She smiles, usually white teeth stained red, eyes cruel and unforgiving.

Punch. Wind. Punch.

John struggles in his chair. Animalistic thrashing, anything that could possibly pull him from his restraints. He ignores the tearing of skin on his wrists, and the burning against his ankles. A guttural growl rumbles from his throat, rage brimming over and spilling out.

"Just answer the question, John."

Punch. Wind. Punch. Wind.

"Yes."

Silence.

"Yes?" Lambert echoes, dropping his hand. Peering over his shoulder, he eyes John curiously. Waiting. John drops his head, eyes shut tight.

"Yes."

"See," Lambert coos. "Was that so hard?" Stepping away from Root, he places a hand on John's shoulder. John peers up at him, desperately wishing looks could kill. "Same thing tomorrow?" Lambert asks, then chuckles, giving John's shoulder a pat as he goes.

A door closes. He waits.

"Root?" John asks, looking for any signs of life. She doesn't stir. "Root?"

"You weren't supposed to tell him."

"He was going to kill you."

"Then I guess he wouldn't have any more leverage against you, would he?" Her eyes snap up to him, pain replaced by rage. "I was handling this."

"No, you were being beaten to death. There's a difference."

She looks away from him, eyes shutting tight. The blood drips from her nose, pooling on the floor. He clears his throat.

"It was only one answer."

"Every answer matters."

"A one word answer doesn't give them anything."

"It gives them everything." Root slumps in the chair, head resting against the back rest. Her breathing is jagged.

"Root... come on..." John tries.  _Who would have thought I'd feel guilty for trying to help her?_  he thinks to himself, lip twitching, but he can't stay mad for long. Not with the state she's in. Not with all she's been through to protect the Machine.  _And in a one word answer, I stripped that all away._  Closing his eyes, he hears Lambert's voice at the beginning of the interrogation.

_'I'm going to ask you one question. Just one: Did the Machine's code make it onto that satellite?'_

_Yes. I told him yes._

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Securing Location...**

**> Kaborthy Cinema, Manhattan**

**> > Admin remote security feeds**

**> >> 13:26, 07/18/2017**

**...Initiating Search Protocol...]**

"Anything else I can get for you?" Shaw asks, the faintest hint of sarcasm on her lips. For the past three days, she'd been running every errand Harold could create in the hopes of getting his work space ready for action. Computer monitors, two laptops, high grade hard drives, cooling fans and air conditioning units, desks, chairs, and a hot plate for his tea kettle.

"No," he answers, half-heartedly. He's focused on the wires he attaches to an old set in a nearby wall. He feeds them through, then taps at his keyboard. The monitors whirr to life. "I think we have everything we need."

"Where'd you find this place anyway?" Shaw asks, taking a step back and peering up. She hadn't bothered to look around much-- her number one priority was getting Harold to work as quickly as possible.

"Stockers bought it with mutual funds after the theatre company claimed bankruptcy. They couldn't turn a profit on it, so a bank I have a hand in seized it a few years ago."

Her eyes trail over the weathered, plush chairs and rolls of old film sitting in tins. She swipes a finger across them, displacing a thick line of dust.

"And you chose the subway over this place?"

"At the time, Samaritan was active. The subway gives far more escape routes than this place."

She nods, fighting off a yawn. She hadn't slept since their return to New York. If she wasn't running errands, she was running numbers and chasing leads. She fights another yawn, this time losing the battle.

"Perhaps some rest would do you good."

"I'm fine."

"You're tired, and you're useless if you're too tired to work. You've done more than enough, and it's going to take a few hours for me to build up the firewalls. Take some time." She thinks about it. Shakes her head.

"I have one more thing I gotta do," she answers at last, stretching the encroaching sleep from her limbs and grabbing her sidepiece.

"I really suggest that--"

"Suggest what you want, I'll be back in an hour."

Without waiting for Harold's response, Shaw slips onto the street. Popping up her hood, she keeps her eyes down, hands in her pockets. A payphone rings. She walks past. The next one rings. Lip tugging into a sneer, she veers left, shoulder checking a businessman as she reaches out for the phone. She puts in to her ear, teeth clenched and eyes red hot.

"You've been dodging my calls, Sam."

Root's voice. Her playful coo, and some of Shaw's anger melts.

"Ran over my cell with the last number. Haven't had the time to pick up a new one."

"I'm worried about you."

Shaw’s heart skips a beat.

"Don't be," Shaw spits back, eyes flashing to a security camera on the street corner. She stares into it, a constant reminder that this isn't Root on the line.  _Not quite._

"You're important to me."

Shaw doesn't respond.

"You can't keep searching for ghosts."

"I'm not searching for ghosts."

"No," Root--  _The Machine_ \-- says sadly, "just becoming one."

"I'm still working the numbers," Shaw growls. "You can't tell me how to spend my free time."

"Where are you headed?"

She has half a mind not to tell her. To let her wait and see. She sighs.

"Eighth precinct. I've got a dog to pick up." With that, Shaw hangs up, giving the Machine a final glare before returning to the crowd.

## ___\ Soft Boot /____

**{Software patching unsuccessful...**

**> Awaiting Instruction**

**...Closed Circuit System Active...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> >Eastwood, Syracuse, NY**

**> >> October 12, 2016, 17:42 EST**

**...Simulation Setup in Progress}**

Root is wheeled down a hallway, bag over her head and arms strapped to the wheelchair. The injection is slowly wearing off, her senses coming to just enough to feel the motion of rolling forward. To hear the footsteps behind her. To feel the breath on her neck. She lifts her head, trying to keep the world from spinning.

"Today's a big day for you," Lambert says at Root's right. Root has half a mind to smack her head into his. Catch him off guard long enough to escape.  _Escape how?_  she asks herself, a feeling of helplessness beginning to settle in.

They turn the corner.

"Today  _you_  get to start answering some questions for a change."

"Unlike the Big Lug, I won't crack when you use that weak left hook."

He chuckles, breath hot in her ear. It takes all she has not to flinch away.

"You underestimate us, Ms. Groves. You see, we used you against John because we knew that's where it would hurt him most.  _He's_  not your weakness. But," he adds, applying the brakes to the wheelchair. Her restraints are unlocked, and she's yanked quickly onto a hospital bed. Restraints snap to her feet and wrists before she has time to register the movement. The bag is tugged from her face, Lambert's smile the first thing to greet her. "But... we know what your weakness  _is_."

A chill runs down her spine.  _He's so sure of himself_. She can almost believe that he knows.  _That he knows everything_.

Lambert snaps his fingers, doctors immediately beginning to roll monitors into the room. One grabs her head, pushing it down and locking a brace over her forehead. They begin to attach electrodes and sensors to her head and chest. IVs in both arms.

"You got me," Root says snarkily. "How'd you know my weakness was needles?"

"Clever girl," Lambert teases, coming to the right side of her bed. "But not clever enough."

Root winces as a doctor makes an incision behind her left ear. She hadn't heard him coming. He places something small and smooth behind her ear, then nods to Lambert. There's a knock on the door. Seeing who, Lambert grins, giving Root a wink.

"I presume you remember Miss Mahoney?" he asks, opening the door. Claire steps through, looking much older than the teenager Root had remembered.  _How long have I been here?_  she wonders, but pushes the thought away. Claire pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then tugs her lab coat a little higher. Her eyes never leave Root's.

"How's Harold?" Claire asks, not nearly able to mask the trepidation in her words as she walks towards her station. There's a small desk tucked in the corner of the room, wires connecting in the back and slithering along the ground like snakes.

"Wouldn't know, I've been  _here_ ," Root shoots back. Claire swallows hard.

"Miss Mahoney will be administering your tests from here on out," Lambert tells Root, stepping between the two and forcing Root's eyes on him. "What, with Martine and Greer gone, we're a little short staffed."

"You warn her not to get too close to the enclosure?" Root asks him, and he smiles.

"Don't worry. She knows you bite." Clasping his hands, he rubs them together. Turns to the doctor. "What are you waiting for?"

Electricity. White hot and blinding. It starts in Root's head, shooting down her neck and branching out along her spine. It burns, the heat like cigarettes put out on her skin. Something's placed between her teeth, and not a moment later, another burst of electricity hits her. She bites down, teeth ready to crack. Her eyes roll, the room spinning then disappearing completely. Her body convulses, the restraints being the only thing that keep her on the bed.

It stops.

Her breath is ragged, chest shallowly rising-- almost not daring to show signs of life for fear of being struck again. From somewhere in the distance, or maybe in the back of her mind, Root hears an alarm. Her head lols, eyelids too weak to pull open. Sweat breaks on her forehead, rolling down her face and soaking into her hospital gown.

"What the hell's going on?" Lambert hisses, throwing the door open. "What's that alarm for?"

Footsteps rush up the hallway. Breaths coming in fast.  _Is that gunfire?_

"There's been a breach in the building. Small woman, dark hair. She's got a grenade launcher."

"Shit," Lambert mutters. Root opens her eyes.

"Problem?" she croaks, voice not nearly as strong as she would have wanted. It gets to him all the same.

"Looks like shock therapy is going to have to wait," he says. Snapping at the doctors, they begin to pull off the sensors. One unlocks her forehead restraint, then starts on her wrists.

_Wrong move._

Throwing her body forward, she head butts him in the nose. He fumbles back, hands coming to his face, and she tears the keys from his hand. Grabbing another doctor by the head, she slams him against the side table, then turns to the last doctor. She has a scalpel in her hand, ready to lunge, and Root smiles. Smacking it away with ease, she snaps her neck. Claire jumps up, pressing herself to the back corner. Root begins unlocking her ankles.

Lambert approaches, withdrawing his gun from his waistband. She kicks it from his grasp, and it clatters to the floor. Another swift kick to his face, and he stumbles back, hitting the wall. She unfastens the last restraint, pulling herself off of the bed. Her legs are like pudding, but she forces herself forward. Looking about, she finds Lambert's gun on the ground in front of Claire's desk. She dives for it, coming to a shaky stand and aiming it at the place where Lambert fell.

He's gone.

Whipping around, she aims it, point blank, at Claire. From this close, the stench of fear is overwhelming, and Claire shakes, too overcome with emotion to cry out for help. Root smiles, a familiar calm settling back into her bones. She raises a brow.

"Still think you made the right choice?" she asks. Claire doesn't answer.

Root clicks the safety off the gun, finger at the trigger.

"Root?" John's voice bellows from the hall. "Root, where are you? We have to go!"

Nostrils flaring, she lowers the weapon. Claire lets out a relieved breath.

Crack!

Whacking Claire with the butt of the gun across the temple, Claire drops like a stone. Root takes to the hall, pressing herself to the wall immediately as gunfire spits past her. She returns it, hitting two operatives.

John's hand encases her wrist from behind, and he drags her down the hall.

"How do we get out of here?" John demands, letting go of her as an operative rounds the corner. Chopping him in the throat quickly, he brings his elbow down on the man's pressure point. He takes his gun.

"I don't know."

"You've been here longer than me, you have to know something."

"Every time they move me from room to room, they always inject me with something. I have no idea what this place looks like."

John nods, and they take a right around the corner.

"Lambert got word that a small woman with a grenade launcher breached the building."

_Bang!_

Root shoots an operative. They walk past him, and Root grabs his handgun, placing it in her left hand. A smile overtakes her.  _Damn, it's good to be back._

"You think that could be for us?"

"Do you know anyone else who could do that?"

_Bang!_

John drops.

Root shoots, the agent hitting the ground, but Root doesn't have time to focus on him. She drops to her knees, pulling John up by the collar. His eyes are glassy, lips curved open in pain, but no sound comes out. Blood blossoms from his chest, soaking into his scrubs and spreading along his entire abdomen.

"John? John, come on, hey," she says, shaking him. She presses her hands to his chest, icy fingers submerging in sticky heat. Tears tug at her eyes, watching the way he looks about. His eyes sluggishly find what she's doing, as if he hadn't even known he was shot.

"Come on," she repeats, bottom lip trembling. "Come on, you're okay. You have to be okay, we're getting out of here."

"Root,"

"Just... just get up. We'll find bandages. There's there's, I just, we just came from a doctor's medical room, thing. I was just in there. We can patch you up, we can--"

She stops, John's gaze falling away from her. She pulls him up by the collar once more, blood soaked hands leaving dark stains on the white collar. Dark stains against his pale skin.

"Go."

"I'm not leaving you." He grows heavy in her hands. "John? John, I'm not leaving you."

He doesn't respond. There's nothing left of him to respond.

She presses her lips together tight, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

"Please..." she tries, one final time, but it's too late. She puts a hand on his cheek, blood smearing against the scruff, and she balls her hands into fists. Closes her eyes. Opens them. Something's changed-- something hardens.

Standing, she regains both of her weapons. She starts down the hall. The agent that shot John still lays in a growing pool of his own blood, holding his knee. Without looking at him, she points the gun. One swift shot, and his pained groans stop.

One, two, three more burst through double doors at the end of the hall. She doesn't trouble herself with kneecaps. The gun in her right clicks, empty, and she tosses it to the ground.

Pushing through the doors, she catches two agents at either side of the one person she thought she'd never see again.

_Sameen Shaw._

One gives her a swift punch to the gut, and she doubles over. They drag her back. She struggles, throwing her head back. They lock eyes. Root stares at her, time frozen.  _Those eyes. Shaw's eyes._  The anger in them drains, seeing Root. Her lips part, the echo of the word 'run,' falling from Shaw's lips. She's pulled out of sight.

Root chases after. She rounds the corner, throwing her entire body weight into the only door in sight.

Crashing through, she sees Shaw in a chair, both agents holding her shoulders down. She raises her gun, ready to take the shot.

"I would reconsider, if I were you."

Root stops, Lambert's voice coming from her left. Turning, she sees him in from of a computer, hand lying across it casually. He seems eerily in control. She points the gun at him.

"With all the people you shot out there, would I be wrong to assume there's only one bullet left in that gun?"

"One's enough."

"I don't think it is. See," he gestures to the agents, who strap Shaw to the chair. They leave. Root never takes the gun off of Lambert. "You have a choice. Kill her," he points at Shaw, "or kill the Machine." He pats the computer.

"And what if I do neither?"

"That wasn't a choice." He nods toward the door where his agents left. "You kill me, they kill her. Before I even hit the ground."

"What makes you think I could even  _kill_  the Machine?"

"You and Harold rebuilt Her after Samaritan nearly wiped Her off the grid. If anyone would know what backdoors to crawl through, it would be you."

"Funny thing about Ai's is that the intelligence part? It means that they're pretty  _smart_. Smart enough to see that coming."

"Not from you," he responds, growing dark. "She trusts you too much to expect it from you."

"Root," Shaw says, and Root bites her lip. It feels like an eternity since she'd heard Shaw's voice. "Root, look at me."

She does. She sees Shaw, calm and collected as ever. Looking as if this is more a casual get together than certain death.  _She can't die,_  Root tells herself,  _I can't let her die._

"You know what you have to do," Shaw tells her, and Root shuts her eyes tight.

"Don't say that."

"This is bigger than us. It always has been."

"I can't kill you, Shaw, I..." Root opens her eyes. Shaw's expression hasn't changed. "I can't."

"Come on, Root," Shaw says, tilting her head to the side. A hint of a smile passes over her lips. "You didn't really think we'd ever make it to a point of domestically, did you?" In spite of herself, Root grins.

"No. We were always more of a four alarm fire than a wood stove type."

Shaw says nothing, the phrase seeming not to register. She returns to her original position, face a mask once more.

"You know what you have to do," she repeats. Root's eyes grow hot. She looks between Shaw and the computer. She looks at the gun in her hand. The decision before her.  _Two choices? Make it three._

"Do you remember when you were in the simulations?" Root asks, eyes slowly crawling back to Shaw. She doesn't want to blink. She wants every possible moment left spent seeing her.  _This will be the last time I see her._

"Yeah."

"And what you did, every time?"

"Yeah."

"I hated that you did that to yourself, but... I understand."

"Root..." Shaw starts in a warning tone. Root raises the gun.

"I'm sorry it has to be like this," Root says, a calm settling over her. She flips her hair behind her shoulder, signature smirk tugging onto her lips. "I always thought the reunion would be a little more steamy."

"Root, I've been looking for you for months, you can't do this. Not after everything I did to get here."

Root aims. Shaw tugs at her restraints.

"You can't do this, Root. Listen to me. Listen to me!"

Lambert, seeing her aim the gun at herself, starts forward. "Stop," he commands.  _To me or to someone else?_  "This stops right--"

_Bang!_

Root's eyes burst open, gasping for air as if she's been held under water for a century. Her body convulses, trying to sit up, but the restraints keep her down, cutting into her skin. Her eyes swim around the room, wide like saucers as her mouth hangs open. Her chest heaves, heart monitor racing. Lambert looks at her from the corner of the medical room, never seeming to have moved. Claire still sits at her desk, eyes glued to the screen. Root feels like a wild bird stuffed into a cage, unsure how to escape but knowing she has to.

"Results?" Lambert asks.

"Unsatisfactory," Claire responds.

"Run it again."

Before Root can take so much as another breath, the electricity starts again.

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Searching for Analog Interface...**

**> Record inventory**

**> > Security feed scrub**

**> >> Initiate from 05/31/2016**

**...Samaritan Activity Detected...**

**...Informing Admin...**

**> Kaborthy Cinema, Manhattan**

**> > Admin remote security feeds**

**> >> 11:56, 9/6/2017**

**...Securing All Assets]**

Harold's phone trills as he finishes pouring the kettle water into a mug. Dropping in a tea bag, he returns to his desk, looking at the caller ID.  _Blocked._

"If Ms. Shaw could keep a phone for more than a day, maybe we'd know who was calling," Harold says, giving Bear a pat between the ears. He answers.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Harry." Harold freezes, the voice like a ghost in the receiver. "Don't worry, it's just me. For the record, I was on your side of the search for awhile."

He clears his throat, trying desperately to throw oil in the jammed cogs of his mind. "You mean the search for Ms. Groves and Mr. Reese."

"That's the one."

He swallows hard.

"Why call me?" he asks. They hadn't spoken, not like this, since the day John died. "I thought you and Ms. Shaw were the only ones on speaking terms."

"A girl gets lonely," the Machine responds in Root's signature pout. It's chilling. "I'm calling for business."

"What business?"

"Check your email."

The line goes dead. Snapping back into full function, Harold scrambles for his email.  _What could She have?_  he wonders, finding a link from Thornhill Utilities. He clicks it.

Harold and Shaw had been searching for any trace of Root and John for nearly two months. Two months, and nothing to show for it except a deep-set ache in his heart for Grace. He knows this must be what Shaw feels--  _not that she would ever admit it or even accept it_ \-- which is the reason he's decided to stick around. But the search is an endless one, and are two broken hearts really better than one?

The link tunnels through his servers, opening in a proxy account. It's a snippet of code. Fine tuned and elegantly processed with a signature style he knows all too well.

His own.

Patchwork within his own design, a thread of Samaritan stares him in the face. A live segment of code worming its way back into the security cameras of New York.

It's taken some serious damage. The virus they installed very clearly taking its toll, but not enough. Not enough to stop it. Not enough to keep it from building an immunity.

"Where did you find this?" he asks into the emptiness, only half-believing that the Machine will answer. Another email pops in. A video.

Lionel Fusco walks into the morgue of the city hospital, following a medical examiner to a morgue drawer. Reading the labels, she taps the one on the far left, two up. She gives it a tug.

Root. Pale white on the autopsy tray as Fusco looks down at her, sadness welling in his eyes. He makes a call. Says two words. Hangs up. He looks away, shuts his eyes, then thanks the M.E. for her time. All goes dark, nothing more than the monitor lights and air condition units blinking in the darkness.

The footage repeats. Harold begins to click away, but realizes the video is only halfway through.  _There's a reason it's playing again_. He watches Fusco go through all the motions once more, then thank the M.E. for her time. The lights go out. The lights come back on. The camera glitches, lights off. Glitches again, lights on. A group of four men dressed as CSIs enter with a gurney and body bag. They shine a light in Root's eyes. Check her pulse. They load her into the bag. The M.E. comes into shot, arms folded. She gestures to the door in irritation. They hand her money. The lights go off.

Another email. He reads it.

_'Samaritan was strong enough to scratch the tapes beyond my touch. Not any more.'_

Harold puts a hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair. Reaching for his phone, he dials Shaw.

Grunting greets him. A man yelling. Something crashing.

"If you need me on another tea run, I'm a little busy."

"Root's alive," he blurts, all the ways he could have better lead into it falling apart as the words rush from him. A single bullet shot. Silence.

"You're sure?" she asks.

"Please don't tell me you just killed a man," Harold groans.

"He'll live. You're sure?" she repeats. "About Root?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"I haven't figured that out yet." Harold's fingers hover over his keyboard, not sure where to start but needing to begin. "Ms. Shaw?"

"Yeah?"

"I shouldn't have doubted you on this." He waits, nothing but static greeting him on the other end of the line. Sirens wail in the distance.

"It doesn't matter now. What matters is finding where they are."

She hangs up. He listens to the dial tone like a stereo, eyes glued to his screen.  _What matters is finding where they are_ , he repeats to himself. He sets his fingers down on the keyboard.  _Then let's find them._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the support on part one! You guys are the best.
> 
> Also, in order to better distinguish between the Machine and Samaritan, I’m using [ for the Machine ] and { for Samaritan } during security feeds.
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and please let me know what you think!


End file.
